


Delays

by FatlockFills



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Eating, Fat! Sherlock, Fatlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Unrequited Love, Weight Gain, poor sad Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2259315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatlockFills/pseuds/FatlockFills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John seems to keep finding reasons not to visit, Sherlock turns to the companionship of food instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delays

"Sorry, Sherlock, I just really can’t." 

Sherlock could hear the chaos on the other end of the phone; the baby’s high pitched cries came through with a hiss, beating tinnily at his ear drum. It seemed astounding that John would actually choose listening to that monster over a quiet dinner in 221b, but that’s how things were going. 

"Of course. No, clearly. I’m sure we will. Soon. Yes. Goodbye." Sherlock could barely get off the phone soon enough; he really did prefer to text. He cut off John’s rambling apology and the crying of his daughter with a simple flick, and set his phone down carefully. 

He was already sitting at the table. Mrs. Hudson had been bribed and encouraged to make a feast for John Coming to Dinner, and she had. There was a roast, a side of roasted potatoes and mashed, tossed salad with a thick chocolate cake. Sherlock was never gifted with a large appetite. At the moment it felt like liquid lead was dripping down his throat, past the lump that hurt his windpipe, to settle into his stomach. 

He dragged the nearest dish to him and started stuffing bites into his mouth, determined to justify that heavy feeling in his gut. 

——

Sherlock’s phone went off with a single sharp chime. He didn’t have to take it off the lock screen to read the messages. 

The baby’s got a fever. It’s probably nothing, but Mary’s worried and so am I, just a little. JW

It’s probably nothing. I’ll be free to make it next week. JW

Sherlock turned back to the cabinet. The fifth time John couldn’t see him. He wasn’t anywhere near using, of course not, but it still smarted that John wasn’t in the least concerned with him. Well, Sherlock wasn’t cooking for the doctor anymore, so there was no need to cater to his desire to diet. Sherlock grabbed the butter dish, scraping the nearly full stick into the sauce pan on the stove. When he leaned forward to grab the onion powder, the curve of his belly pressed against the counter. It was still slight, but the tightness of his shirt made it all the more noticeable… had there been anyone there to see it. 

Chime. 

Sherlock? JW

Chime.

We can still text. How are you? JW

Sherlock didn’t notice; he was too busy doubling the cream in this sinfully uncheesy pasta recipe. He’d have to fix that too. 

——

It would turn out later that John’s cab was in an accident on his way to Sherlock’s. Not a bad one; no more than a serious fender bender, where the most serious injury was “Christ, I got such a fright,” but it was enough that John had to stay as a witness, giving his statement to various officials and police officers long past the time he was supposed to meet Sherlock. 

An hour after John was supposed to have arrived, Sherlock scraped the very last of the soy sauce wet fried rice into his mouth. It was salty and pleasant, and he groaned as he sat back. John wasn’t coming. He was probably never coming, he’d probably never left the house even though he’d texted Sherlock to say he was on his way. 

The detective pressed his palms to his gut. He’d eaten everything in an hour; the salt and pepper pork chops, the dry fried ribs, two orders of fried rice and a carton of lemon chicken. He was bulging out of his trousers; the button creaked ominously when he leaned back. His shirt was already untucked, and was riding high over his belly button. He’d been eating a lot more lately, as evidenced by the loose flesh around his stuffed belly and the way his thigh strained the fabric of his trousers, but this was a lot at once even for him. 

Chime. 

There was a cab accident. I know, I know, it sounds like my excuses are getting stranger but I swear to Christ some bastard nearly clipped the nose of the cab right off. JW

Don’t worry about it. I didn’t. SH

He almost put the phone down, but instead he stared at it, considering. Then he pressed redial. “Yes, hello. A delivery order for 221b. Yes, another. Let’s see… A hot and sour soup, 18 potstickers, an order of fried rice, an order of salt and pepper fish…” 

——

"Sherlock!" John pushed the door open with his shoulder. "Hello! Mrs. Hudson let me up. I was just in the neighborhood, and I thought—" He pushed through to the living room, and froze. 

Sherlock was laying on the sofa, in his pyjamas and bathrobe, hands steepled. The posture was one he was familiar with, but the rest of it… Sherlock’s once baggy shirt no longer met his sweat pants over a very round gut. His once concave stomach bulged out, and his trousers slid off the paunch. His face had softened until, lying down, it was clear he’d developed a double chin. His pecs pushed against the straining fabric of his shirt. John could see all this because that loose bathrobe didn’t come close to closing over Sherlock’s new frame. 

"Oh, good, John." Sherlock popped the last bite of butter slathered toast into his mouth and wiped his fingers on a napkin. He cast a glance at the clock. "It’s half past 11. Did you bring lunch?"

**Author's Note:**

> Received at fatlock.tumblr.com:
> 
> Anonymous said: All I want is a little ficlet about a sad Sherlock filling his life with eating and food because he hardly sees John anymore because of baby Watson. When John visits Sherlock is a lazy housecat.


End file.
